The Dream of Locusts
by EscapeToCity
Summary: And then the storm comes...futurefic...Please read and review


THE DREAM OF LOCUSTS  
  
By: EscapeToCity  
  
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. They are the property of DC/Millar-Gough/Time-Warner, etc.  
  
Notes: This will be my last 'Smallville' oriented story for a time...there's a lot going on right now and I need to look after those things...I will return to writing sometime this summer, hopefully. Best regards and wishes to everyone who reads my stories and offers up wonderful feedback and constructive criticism.  
  
Until we cross paths again,  
  
JB @ Austin  
  
There was a space no one saw or cared to see. A place, a flash, a pause. It was there to be caught, to be craved, to be clamored for. It screamed out for attention.  
  
"No one came by, sir."  
  
There was a person, a face, a heart, a smile. A grin for the mirror or for the tile wall. Maybe for the floor, for the toilet, for the ceiling. This aspect always sought another.  
  
"Nothing this week."  
  
It had been three months. Or three years. Maybe thirty. He wasn't sure, couldn't be sure, tried to forget, wanted to recall. It had been so long since anyone had even said his name. He lived in that other place now, in that tower, that spire, that lofty perched prison he so wanted to dissolve, to burn, to rattle, to vanish into.  
  
"Stock price is up five dollars. Should we sell?"  
  
They bring lunch on gold, deceptions on silver, deals in cowhide and Chanel. He laughs but no sound comes from his throat. She watches, her fingers clocked on the metal, lips curled.  
  
"No deal."  
  
The bodies pile up in the furnace and luckily it has rained so much this particular summer. Thunderstorms allow for tornadic winds and selective memories. Somewhere other he thinks of black hair and blue eyes and the razor doesn't hurt so much that way.  
  
"They are attempting a takeover."  
  
He hears but doesn't care. Maybe ten years ago he would have. Maybe last year. This year he sits in his penthouse and thinks of his nonexistence and his fading looks; the smoky pallor about his wrists and the creamy milk filling his eyes. There were other kinds of cream once. He can't conjure their tastes.  
  
"Let them."  
  
The day the shareholders revolt, the day the market crashes, the day the bodies are found, the day Mercy leaps and Hope cries; that day he pulls from his desk the picture, the little tiny fractured image in black, white, and tan. There is who he was, could have been and would be. There is the smile, the red lips, and the illusion.  
  
There was possibility.  
  
"I am nothing."  
  
A field tended frequently and carefully. Weeded and mulched. Protected from the flying marauders carrying discord and dissolution on their backs.  
  
"Sir....?"  
  
If only he could reseed. Use compost or Ortho. Cut out his eyes and hypothalamus. If only.  
  
(I wish you could stop me Clark)  
  
They sweep around the room with cameras and glare and pomp and expensive department store tags and false reverence and he hears himself laughing and cackling and yes, he even hears his throat close up and maybe he sees something wonderful in the corner of his eye.  
  
Maybe.  
  
"Give us the whole story."  
  
Maybe one of them will win a Pulitzer or write the story. His story.  
  
"Take."  
  
Perhaps one will clamor for the truth.  
  
"Give us the story."  
  
They don't see his finger on the button.  
  
"Take everything you can."  
  
It's more likely they will loot his life, take his legacy, albeit tainted, and rush about dancing in the wind redrawing his experiences. One of them, the one there with the greasy glasses and hunched back—maybe he will tell the true tale. The one with the eyes. Those eyes.  
  
"Take it all."  
  
(They don't see his finger on the button)  
  
The sudden shift. Too sudden. No time for Mr. Kent to expose himself.  
  
"No!"  
  
The fall comes painfully, of course.  
  
Very bloody.  
  
Brain splattered everywhere.  
  
Anyone who says differently wasn't there.  
  
The cloud comes soon after.  
  
Boiling sky.  
  
The tape plays. Few hear.  
  
"I should have died the day of the meteor shower. October 1989."  
  
(Please remember)  
  
Blue to flash black.  
  
"Welcome to my mind, fellow citizens."  
  
There won't be many left for forty miles who will be able to tell the tale.  
  
Nine million.  
  
That one there-- with the glasses—perhaps he will be able.  
  
Perhaps he will cry.  
  
Bones. Eyes. Skin. Mangle. Crush. Drip. Settle. And settle. And flow.  
  
Perhaps he will remember the well-tended garden.  
  
(Sometimes love isn't enough)  
  
Ten million.  
  
Before the storm.  
  
One.  
  
After the end.  
  
(Hate is always enough)  
  
Who knows?  
  
(Truth always saves)  
  
Perhaps we can begin again?  
  
END of 'The Dream of Locusts' 


End file.
